In the Company of Thieves

by Kage Baker

  He blinked in amazement. Through the Spectrometer, he beheld the world in outline—like an artist’s preliminary sketch in charcoal on a white canvas, innocent of color. As he stared, each outline gradually filled with a cryptic scribble that resolved into lists of elements and percentage figures. They told him the precise chemical composition of the oxidized steel the skeleton wore, even of its dry bones. If he turned his head to focus on something else, the notations vanished as though blown away, only to re-form on the new object of his attention like birds returning to a roost.

  Fascinated, Marsh held up his hand before his eyes and waited as the list formed, detailing to the last ounce that whereof he himself was made. “This is impossible,” he murmured.

  “Not for our people,” said a voice close to his ear. He looked up to see Edward, a living illustration rendered even more subtly monstrous by the instrument’s analysis of him, for its list of constituent chemicals was far more complex than Marsh’s own. What was the man, if he was even a man? And who had made such an instrument, capable of such miraculous analysis? Marsh felt fear in his heart, swiftly transmuting to unholy joy.

  “The recruiter hinted—but I never imagined it was true!” he whispered. “Why, we must have found the Philosopher’s Stone!”

  “Long ago,” said Edward. “But there are more precious metals than gold. Your duty is to locate one, now. You had better commence.”

  Marsh wandered forth into the world of the Spectrometer, where the whole of the vault resembled a newspaper engraving come to life. He became so absorbed in his analysis of sword-hilts and shield-bosses that he scarcely noticed the others, feeling about like blind men in their search for another exit from the crypt.

  “Bugger this,” said Jenkins. “Didn’t the silly bastard mention where it was in his notes?”

  Johnson set down the lamp on the edge of the nearest catafalque and pulled a sheaf of papers from his coat. Holding the foremost page in the light, he cleared his throat and read aloud:

  “16 January, 1850. At last! The peace I require for uninterrupted work. Some trepidation at first as to whether I would be able to find the door from this side, or whether the passage of years might have rendered it impassible even should I recognise the egress; but my fears proved groundless.

  “Before securing the alloy samples, I indulged myself so far as to satisfy a curiosity that has dogged me since I was so unfairly forbidden access to the vaults. I had brought with me a pair of calipers, and took pains to measure those of the skulls of my forebears not yet crumbled to fragments. Imagine my gratification on discovering that it was indeed as I had suspected—my cranial capacity far exceeds theirs. If ever I had required proof that I am, in fact, a criminal mastermind, this would have assured me that intellectually I so far exceed these dabblers in arcane geometry as ordinary men outstrip the ourang-outan in cognitive process.”

  “Less vanity, more information,” requested Edward. Johnson read on hastily.

  “He never says how he got out! Just, ‘Having procured the Gyttite, I slid my ladder back into its place of concealment and returned here through the tunnel. How the wind howls! I really must do something about these draughts—’”

  “Ladder?” said Edward. Taking the papers, he held them up and read closely. Then he raised his head to peer at the distant ceiling.

  “It’s up there,” he said. “The tunnel?” said Marsh in dismay.

  “No. The Gyttite.” Edward walked to the nearest wall and jumped, catching hold of a projecting cornice. He braced his other hand on the wall, meaning no doubt to swing himself up; but as he did so the others exclaimed. Marsh pulled the Spectrometer off in some haste, and beheld another marvel.

  The whole of the vaulted crypt was now brilliantly illuminated. The dead grinned up at an incandescent fairyland, where every arch and figure of ornamental tracery was outlined in pencil-strokes of flame. Nor did it flicker, rather glowing steadily.

  Edward, momentarily frozen as he gaped at the spectacle, recovered his composure and let go the cornice, dropping to the floor. Instantly the light went out. Only gradually did they regain their vision, by the comparatively dim beam of Johnson’s lamp.

  “The spectral lights of Rosslyn,” said Johnson quietly. “The legends were true.”

  “Spectral!” said Edward. “I doubt it. Let us see, shall we?”

  He stepped close to the wall again and tilted his head back, looking with attention at a dark band that ran just above the cornice, at a height of eight feet, the whole length of the wall and in fact along all adjoining walls. Edward reached up and set his hand there.

  The uncanny light returned at once. Marsh, watching closely this time, observed that it originated at the point at which Edward’s hand was in contact with the band, and spread so rapidly therefrom in all directions that it appeared nearly simultaneous.

  “This doesn’t half beat the Strand,” said Wilson, with a tremulous giggle. Edward took his hand down. The light extinguished itself once more—and seemed, in doing so, to vanish at the outermost vaults of the crypt first, fleeing as it were to the point of its origin. Indeed, as it disappeared, its last manifestation took the phantom outline of a hand.

  Johnson held the lamp as high as he could, peering at the ceiling. “It’s some sort of wire, threaded amidst the carvings,” he said.

  “And the band is a panel of metal,” said Edward. They exchanged a significant look. “Gyttite,” he said. He set his hand to the panel again. As the light bloomed once more, they studied the remarkable care with which each floral pattern or hieratic emblem had been set with light. Yet it was possible to see where a few tiny areas had gone dark. A floret here, a bossed rosette there seemed to have been broken away; and these were all in the lower sections of the design. Johnson pointed.

  “That’s where he was getting his samples,” he said. “The bloody little vandal.”

  “We must follow his example, I fear,” said Edward. “Look sharp! Do any of you spy a ladder?”

  He waited patiently, but diligent search on the part of the others failed to disclose where Gytt had hidden his ladder, even though the crypt was bright as a cathedral’s worth of lit candles. He looked up and fixed his gaze on a large terminal pendant, in the (appropriate) shape of a fleur-de-luce, some twelve feet above the floor.

  “We’ll take that,” he said. “Who’s tallest after me? Jenkins? Come, please.”

  Wondering, Jenkins stepped forward. He was seized and hoisted into the air above Edward’s head as though he weighed no more than a child. Edward shifted the young man to a standing position on his own shoulders.

  Jenkins, struggling to keep his balance, reached up into the darkness and groped desperately for the fleur-de-luce. When his hand closed on it at last, the crypt lit once more; although it was altogether less bright than on the previous occasions. He wrenched and twisted at the ornament until it snapped off, whereupon the crypt darkened again; but the fleur-de-luce shone on in Jenkins’s hand. It flashed in an unsteady arc as Edward crouched to set him down.

  The others crowded close to stare.

  “Doesn’t it burn your hand?”

  “It doesn’t appear to be phosphorus—”

  “Let the new man see!”

  Jenkins offered the ornament to Marsh, who took it gingerly—it did not burn at all, though the metal was distinctly warm. He put on the Spectrometer. Once more, the world became a steel engraving, and the fleur-de-luce was a graceful basketwork of...of...

  “Copper,” he said, “tungsten, lead...but...what’s this? That can’t be right! Why would anyone alloy—”

  There came a muffled thunder from the direction of the collapsed tunnel, just as Williams (who had been searching diligently for Gytt’s exit, and gone far down one of the side aisles) called out:

  “Here! This must be it!” He pointed to footprints in the dust, that led up to a blind wall and vanished.

  “I believe a hasty departure is called for,” said Edward. He led the others to the s
pot, and scowled at the wall. “More light! Pass the lamp this way, if you please.” Johnson brought it close and, for good measure, Edward took the fleur-de-luce from Marsh. It flamed into brilliance in his hand.

  “Here! Why’s it light up like that for him?” demanded Wilson.

  “His hands are hotter?” Johnson suggested. “Edward’s closer to Hell than the rest of us, after all.”

  Edward narrowed his eyes at him, but said only: “I should imagine my body generates a superior electrical current.”

  “It may be...” said Marsh. They all turned to look at him, and he flushed. “It seems to be some sort of superior conductor. If its properties allow it to incandesce at relatively low temperatures...”

  “It’d put the lamplighters out of business,” said Wilson, grinning. “And the whalers and the tallow-makers too! New lamps of Gyttite!”

  “Let us concentrate on the issue at hand, gentlemen,” said Edward, thumping on the wall. “There has to be a lever, or a knob—”

  “Like this?” Johnson pointed to the figure of a seraph, which had been carved with one arm extended, as though greeting someone. Was there an imperfectly concealed join at the figure’s shoulder?

  “Ah.” Edward took the figure by the hand and pushed. There was no sound, but the stone wall promptly swung inward, perfectly balanced on an unseen pivot to move as though it weighed no more than a bubble. Beyond was a smooth stone passageway, leading down into darkness.

  Edward waved the others across the threshold. It gave Marsh a queer feeling to look at the footprints that tracked off into the gloom, knowing that they had been made by a murdered man. When they were all safely in and the wall shut behind them, Edward led them forward, following the prints and necessarily obliterating the last traces of Jerome Gytt.

  Marsh stumbled through a nasty place of dampness and fallen rock. He was hustled on, past great baulks of mining-timber gone black and nearly turned to stone with age. Once he caught a glimpse of what he was certain was an ancient pick, eaten to a mere crescent of rust; once he was sure he saw a Latin inscription scratched on the wall. Horrid white roots hung down from the ceiling here and there, below which Edward must stoop as he hurried on, holding aloft the fleur-deluce. Hour after weary hour they must follow him, mile after mile.

  “You realize where we’re likely to come out,” said Johnson to Edward, at some point in the long flight.

  “Yes,” said Edward, and touched briefly his pistol, which he carried in its leather holster under his arm. Nothing more was said, and Marsh wondered what the significance of their remarks was, until he recollected that Gytt had owned a house in Edinburgh. Would the tunnel stretch so far?

  It seemed to; and now an ancient spillage of coal impeded their way, scattered lumps crunching and sliding under their boots. A mile further on they were obliged to splash ankle-deep through icy water for several hundred yards. Marsh might have been sleepwalking when at last he caromed into Wilson, who had stopped moving. He looked up and saw Edward peering at a rope ladder, holding the fleur-de-luce close. It was common rope, swinging loose from some point high above, and Marsh wondered fearfully if it would still bear weight.

  Edward handed the light off to Johnson and ascended with the ease of a sailor. Staring after him, they saw the plain trap door at the top of the shaft; he reached it, listened warily a moment, and then set his shoulders against it and pushed upward.

  Darkness above. He remained there a long, long moment in silence; at last he lowered himself so far as to look down at the others.

  “The house has been let again,” he said, in a low voice. “There are people asleep in the upper chambers. No dogs, thank heaven; but we shall have to be utterly silent.”

  “What about the Vespertiles?” said Johnson.

  “An excellent question,” said Edward, frowning. “Wait.”

  He climbed the rest of the way up, and they watched his long legs vanishing through the trap. Perhaps five minutes went by. Marsh had just put the instrument case down, and was wondering whether he could lower himself to sit on it comfortably, when Edward’s face appeared in the trap once more.

  “They’ve got three men posted across the street,” he said. “Armed, I’ve no doubt. I suspect they’ve got a man watching the back door as well. You may as well come up; perhaps I can draw them off.”

  Marsh was closest to the ladder, and set his uneasy foot on the lowest rung. Swaying like a pendulum, he made an awkward progression to the point where Edward was able to simply lean down and haul him up through the trap, into what appeared to be someone’s pantry. Marsh was leaning down for the instrument case, which Johnson was endeavoring to pass up to him, when he heard a voice exclaim in wordless surprise. He scrambled to his feet, on the defensive, and shut the trap.

  A tiny boy stood on the threshold of the room, clutching to his chest a stone jar. His fingers, mouth and nightshirt were sticky with jam.

  “Whae’s there?” the child piped.

  Marsh felt a disagreeable prickle of sweat. Edward, however, spoke calmly, and with a moral authority that would have done credit to a headmaster:

  “We are policemen. Have you been stealing jam?”

  The child looked down with wide eyes at the evidence.

  “Och, nae,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “It was that other boy ate the jam.”

  “What other boy?” Edward demanded, looming above him.

  “Er—Smout. Smout’s a hateful, waeful, wicked sinner, sir. Ye wouldna believe the things he gets up tae. I was just putting the jam awa’ so he couldna eat more an’ risk the eternal damnation of his immortal soul,” the child explained.

  “Then you had better put it away, hadn’t you?” said Edward sternly. The child nodded and edged toward a stool that had been pushed up to a high pantry shelf. Edward lifted him up, and assisted him in putting the jar back. Marsh winced, expecting to see child-brains spattering the wall at any minute; but Edward merely turned the boy by his little shoulders and looked into his eyes.

  “I’m happy to hear you’re not a thief, lad,” said Edward, and now his voice was smooth and pleasant as sunlight. “Tell me, are you brave?”

  “Sometimes,” said the child, staring fascinated into Edward’s eyes.

  “I knew you were brave. I could see that straight away,” said Edward, smiling. “Do you have the courage to help us defeat a fearsome enemy?”

  “Aye!” said the child.

  “Very good. There are certain wicked men, hiding in the shadows across the street. Their design is to break into this house and steal treasure.”

  “Like the spoons an’ candlesticks an’ a’?” asked the child, breathless with excitement.

  “Exactly so. The worst of them have already crept into your back garden; my friend and I will deal with them. But you must run upstairs and tell your Papa and servants about the villains across the street, that they may drive them away.”

  “Might I see the villains, please?”

  “Of course,” said Edward, and, lifting the child in his arms, bore him silently from the room. Marsh tiptoed after them, fearing for the child’s safety. Peering around the doorframe into what was evidently a solidly middle-class parlor, he saw the two of them standing at a window, peeking through a parted curtain into the moonlit street without.

  “You see their leader, lurking in that doorway?” Edward was saying.

  “Och, what a wee hideous devil!” the child whispered. “He has a stick! Does he beat people wi’ it?”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised if he did,” Edward whispered back.

  “I shall run an’ tell Papa,” said the child soberly, and turned and ran for the stairs. Edward and Marsh ran for the pantry, where Edward pulled up the trap once more.

  “Come up now! We have our diversion,” he said in a low voice. “Not a sound, any of you. Where is the Gyttite?”

  One after another the rest scrambled through the trap, and Edward seized the Gyttite. It promptly flared into unwelcome brightne
ss, and was hastily wrapped into someone’s coat. As they bunched together in the darkness, Marsh heard the boy’s shrill voice somewhere above, raised in dramatic declaration. There followed deep grumbling response, remonstrations, and screams of temper; at last other voices raised, followed shortly thereafter by the sound of heavy boots descending the stairs.

  Edward herded the others to the back door, drawing his gun as he did so. Moonlight streamed through the white curtain over a narrow window. The tumult reached the front of the house; they heard a door flung open, and the outraged bawl of “HA! WHUT D’YE FANCY YE’RE DOING, LURKING THEER?”

  A shadow fled past the window, and they heard the sound of running footsteps diminishing with distance. Edward tucked the Gyttite, wrapped as it was in the coat, under his arm like a football.

  “Scatter, gentlemen,” he said, “as fast as your legs will carry you. Report to London Central in forty-eight hours.” He threw the door wide and they bolted, all.

  Marsh had a confused impression of scaling a wall, of someone throwing him the instrument case, and of being in a good deal of pain when he caught it. Thereafter he ran through the moonlit streets, terrified but with a certain exhilaration, in what he supposed was the general direction of the hotel.

  The boyish glee faded, as he became conscious of his peril; there were men who would stop at nothing somewhere nearby. And was he any safer with his new friends? Ever before his mind’s eye was the dead face of the Black Knight, when that unfortunate had collapsed forward...

  As he staggered up an unfamiliar street, quite lost now, Edward stepped out of black shadow before him. Only a supreme effort of will kept him from turning and running away.

  “Come along, Marsh,” said Edward shortly, and said not another word to him all the way back to their hotel.

  They neither bathed nor slept there. After a change of clothing they went straight back to the railway station, with the Gyttite safely packed in Edward’s valise, and boarded the train to London.

  Edward, for the first time, seemed weary. He sat with the valise in his lap, leaning into the corner of their carriage; after a while his eyes closed and his head nodded forward, though his body did not otherwise relax.